


Four times they didn't get together and one time they did

by LostinFic



Category: Broadchurch, Secret Diary of a Call Girl (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bookstores, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Prompt Fic, Romance, Teninch Fic, romcom-esque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4562622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostinFic/pseuds/LostinFic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much what it says on the tin. Fifth time's the charm?<br/>Each chapter will be based on prompts sent by readers on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The call

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts for this chapter: “ You were trying to call emergency but you got me instead” (for Anon) and a smidge of “friends trying to set them up” (for jessi-girl9)
> 
> Here’s a little known fact: Hardy’s doctor, the one we saw in S1, is called Martin Baxter. His name is not mentioned in the scene but that’s what he’s listed as in the credits.
> 
> This chapter is set during S2 of Broadchurch.

Hardy scrunched up his face as pain radiated through his chest. He groaned a little louder every morning. Back at the Trader’s, he was mindful of the clients next door, here, it didn’t matter. No one could hear him. No one would know if he died. He’d be found sprawled on the floor in his own feces and half-eaten by seagulls. There’s no such thing as a dignified death.

“Good bloody morning,” he muttered to himself.

He really was worried about the increase in his symptoms. He’d doubled his dose of medication without consulting his doctor first. His next appointment with Dr. Baxter was still three weeks away, but he couldn’t wait that long. He’d called his office yesterday, but the cardiologist was unavailable and apparently he was some higher mortal who doesn’t phone people.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

He knew Dr. Baxter had been arrested for DUI and he would therefore be able to find his home number in the police database.

After some chit chat with the constables on the first floor (“How have you been?” “Is it true you shagged DS Miller?”), they let him use one of the computers with access to the database.

He scrolled down the list of Baxters: Amelia, Colton, Hannah, Martin. Got it. He scribbled down the number on a post-it and left the building.

“Dr. Baxter please,” he asked, as he walked around the harbour towards his house.

“Oh, erm, ok, this is she. How may I help you?”

He frowned, there was something flirtatious, sensual even, to the woman’s voice. Maybe his wife was a doctor too.

“No, my Dr. Baxter is a man.”

“All right, if that’s what you like.” She cleared her throat, then spoke in a deeper voice: “Tell me how to make you feel better?”

Hardy stopped dead in his tracks and turned his back to the street for privacy.

“For God’s sake, this is serious. I’ve bloody arrhythmia. I need to see my doctor. Do you even know Dr. Baxter?”

Whoever it was on the other end of the line finally caught on.

“Fuck! So sorry. I don’t know… just go to the hospital!”

“Who are you?”

“Hannah Baxter. Wait, this is my personal number, it’s confidential, how did you get it?”

He remembered seeing her name on the list, he must have written down the wrong number.

“Look, Ms. Baxter, I apologize for the confusion. Do you know a Dr. Martin Baxter? He’s a cardiologist.”

“No. Unless… I think it may be my uncle, I’m not sure he’s a cardiologist though. In Bournemouth?”

“Aye.”

He heard her rummage about and after a moment, she managed to find her uncle’s phone number.

“Call back,” she said as he was about to hang up.

“Wha’? Why?”

“I’ll be worried, just let me know you’re still alive.”

She was a nutter, that one. Still, he agreed. It was nice to have someone worried about him.

To make the next call, he waited until he’d reached the little blue shack. At least, he thought, if Martin had to come to Broadchurch, they wouldn’t have to meet all cloaks and daggers this time.

He sat down on the doorstep.

Dr. Baxter was less than happy to be disturbed at home during his vacation. But out of all his patients, he wasn’t surprised it was Alec Hardy calling.

Alec explained the increased pain and shortness of breath of the last few days. Every second, he was aware of his heart and its irregular beating. Kind of like when you start thinking about your own breathing except he couldn't control his heart rate.

When he said he’d doubled his medication, Dr. Baxter was easily convinced of the emergency of the situation.

* * *

 

  
Two days had passed and Hannah had yet to hear back from her uncle’s patient. It’s not so much that she was worried, but she couldn’t bear the responsibility. Maybe she was the only person aware of his dwindling heart condition. Granted, that was unlikely. But how could she cope with the niggling doubt? She had no desire to carry such guilt, she already had more than she cared for.

The easiest solution was to call her uncle, but she kept putting it off, anticipating a scolding for giving out his personal number. She waited another day before giving in.

“Hello dear! How’s prostitution?” Martin asked with a hearty chuckle.

He was her only relative in the know (a deplorable incident involving a sick client), fortunately, he was also the most open-minded one and her favourite family member. Still, she hoped he wasn’t about to give her another speech on STDs, if only in retaliation for her mistake.

“Erm, did you perhaps receive a phone call from one of your patients?” she asked, toying with her earring.

“Alec Hardy, yes. Anyone else I should expect a ring from? Another patient? The Queen? Hugh Grant? Please say Hugh Grant.”

He couldn’t see her contrite face but she was making it anyway.

“Sorry! I didn’t think, he had me worried.”

“Yes, he has a flair for the dramatic when need be.”

Obviously, her uncle was bound by patient confidentially and couldn’t give her any details on Alec’s condition. But he did reassure her that they were doing everything to keep him alive and well.

“Are you still single?” Martin asked out of the blue. “Alec is… he can be nice. He’s a knob at times, but he’s got a good heart, you know, figuratively. I believe he recently got divorced.”

“Are you trying to set me up with one of your patients? And a divorcé, urgh.”

“At your age, your next boyfriend will probably already have children of his own.”

Hannah rolled her eyes, she’d heard the speech from her mother already.

“You got any photos of this Alec?”

“Only X-rays.”

“Well, they say it’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

“Between you and me, the outside’s not too shabby either.”

She heard a protest in the background coming from her uncle’s husband. Martin forgot his matchmaking attempt in favour of talking about their vacation plans to Malaga. She knew her uncle well enough to know she hadn’t heard the last of this, though.

Before hanging up, she promised to visit them soon in Bournemouth.

* * *

 

With a cup of tea in one hand and a toast in the other, Hardy stood in front of his refrigerator. He wasn’t looking for something to eat, in fact the door was closed, no, he was looking at a lobster-shaped magnet holding a piece of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. She had asked to be called back.

“Sod it.”

He ate the last of his unsubstantial dinner and dialed the number.

The first minute was awkward at best as he didn’t really know how to introduce himself and he didn’t understand right away that she’d talked to her uncle.

“I’m sorry about the confusion when you called,” she said, laughing. “You must’ve thought I was crazy, pretending to be a man.”

“Well…”

“I have some… gentlemen callers who like to indulge in a little, erm, roleplay.”

“Ha, I see.”

He didn’t.

Then there was a silence that probably didn’t last as long as if felt. He shuffled on his feet, at a loss for something to do or say. 

“So, you’ll be all right, then?”

“Aye.” Should he say more? He should say more. “They’ll do the surgery earlier than planned.”

“Surgery?”

“For a pacemaker.”

“Christ. Do they have to cut through your chest?”

Alec was hit by the mental image of an autopsy: a long cut down the torso, the skin held opened with clips and the repulsive sound of bones snapping. He shuddered.

“Hope not. I think it’s just a tiny cut nowadays.”

Somehow, the conversation turned to medical TV shows. She watched them with morbid fascination, much like she did reality TV. And then they were discussing _The Great British Bake-off_ and _Downtown Abbey_. In the calm months before the trial and Ashworth’s reappearance, he’d spent a lot of time watching telly.

As the conversation flowed more easily, he found himself relaxing, slouching down on the couch, holding the phone between cheek and shoulder. His mental image of her was improving by the minute.

“Are you afraid? Of the surgery, I mean.”

“Yes.”

He’d never said it so unambiguously. Just admitting it was scary.

Maybe it was the feeling of intimacy in the darkened room, or because he couldn’t see her face, but it seemed easier to talk.

“I might not make it… I don’t want it to end now, there’s so much left to do, so many things I haven’t finished.”

He stopped before his voice broke. She didn’t try to comfort him. This time the silence was not awkward, but introspective. And he wondered what scared her.

Her voice was soft when she spoke again.

“Would you like to meet for coffee or something?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s fate that you called me instead of my uncle.”

“Fate?”

He didn’t mean to say it so condescendingly but that’s how it came out anyway.

“You’re right, it’s daft." She laughed uneasily. "Anyway, I’m glad you’re not dead. Take care, bye!”

And she hung up.

“Shit!”


	2. The beach and the running man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompts for this chapter: “Hardy sees Hannah tanning on the beach” from allons-ytohogwarts “Hardy investigating a situation on the dock, sees Hannah being angrily & roughly left behind as toff sails away on yacht” from Anon. (Paraphrasing for the sake of brevity). Thank you for your suggestions!

_Several months later_

Upon leaving Broadchurch, Hardy’s goal was to get closer to Daisy. Well, he was now 44 miles closer, although not quite in Sandbrook yet. Bournemouth being the biggest town in Dorset, the police department always needed extra staff during the touristic season. Granted, working security during an egg-and-spoon race was decidedly less interesting than being a D.I. In fact, it was such a demotion, it bordered on insulting. But he was doing what he had to do to be a better dad for Daisy, and that was good enough for him. Well, as long as it was temporary. A more suitable position was bound to come up in the fall.

 

So, this was why he’d taken up running (that, and the doctor’s orders). It’s not that he liked running so much, but all he needed was a pair of sneakers and he could do it in any city. A gym membership was too much of a commitment.

 

Standing in front of the Travelodge, he stretched his arms up above his head and hopped a few times before starting with a slow jog. He headed down Beacon road towards Undercliff promenade along the ocean. It was still early in the season so, even on this sunny day, there were only a few people on the beach. In a week or two, he’ll have to change his usual route.

 

The view was nowhere near as nice as in Broadchurch. Run-of-the-mill hotels and shabby entertainment complexes stood instead of spectacular cliffs. He had yet to find a quiet spot to sit and stare that didn’t require a five-mile walk. Then again, with no murder case weighing on his shoulders, he didn’t need to do that as much as he used to.

 

The rhythm of his footsteps increased with the rhythm of the music he was listening to on Daisy’s “old” iPod. His daughter had taught him how to make a playlist for running. _Immigrant Song_ usually marked the mid-point of his run. Those “aaaahaaaahaaaaaaahhaa _”_ were just what he needed to push through a sprint. His own heartbeat was as loud as Jimmy Page’s guitar against his eardrums. There was no pain in his chest. Not anymore. And that was the best part of his run: he could push his own limits without being afraid to die. The runner’s high, some call it. He must have been high all right to decide to chat up a woman tanning on the beach. 

 

In retrospect, it’s funny that he first spotted her while listening to _Whole Lotta Love._ Not that he believed in that kind of things. She was right in the middle of his path after all.

 

She was the only person out for a tan. This early in the season, he had to admire her dedication to skin cancer. At first sight, she wasn’t really his type: white and gold striped bikini, large movie star sunglasses and a posh bottle of water (you know the ones made from bloody Nepalese snow, purified by monks or whatever. Seriously, it’s just water). Thing is, she was reading _Slaughterhouse-five_ so there had to be more to her. Besides, he knew better than to judge someone on their appearance alone.

 

He kept looking at her as he came closer, not like a creep or anything, just looking. Or maybe he was a creep. Creeps probably never think they’re creeps, right? _Shut up, Hardy._

 

He tried to think of something to say to her: ask the time? Directions? Astrological sign? With the pacemaker, he felt rejuvenated and kind of wanted to get back in the game. But it had been so long he could hardly remember what the rules were. Or what the game even was.

 

In the end, she was the one who spoke first.

 

She must have heard his footsteps because she looked up from her book and did a little hand wave thing. She stood up while he sprinted through the two meters separating them. He wiped his forehead on the bottom of his t-shirt, then braced himself on his knees, panting.

 

“D’you have the time?” she asked, pushing her sunglasses up on her head.

There was a faint red ring on her cheeks from the glasses, and it made him feel at less of a disadvantage.

“Ten to five.”

“Shit, I’m going to be late.” She started picking up her things and shoving them in a large canvas bag. “D’you know which way is the marina?”

He pointed east, ahead of him.

“I’m heading towards there now. I’d offer you a lift, but…”

“Piggy back?”

She was smiling. A proper toothy grin with a bloody twinkle in her eye, the works. Oh God, and he was smiling back like a looney, wasn’t he?

For a minute, he seriously considered the possibility of hiking her up on his back. But she’d been joking, of course.

“I’ll let you get on with your run then. Ta.”

He shuffled his feet a bit and thought of nothing to say besides “you’re welcome” so he started off again. Two minutes later, he looked back at her over her shoulder and she had definitely been staring at him.

_Back in the game._

Then he tripped on his own shoelace.

 

Alec usually ran past the marina all the way to the aquarium, and he would then go up and through Lower Gardens Park back to the hotel. Today, when he reached the aquarium, he decided to go back on his steps instead. And it did have everything to do with the possibility of running into the blond woman again.

 

As he neared the marina, he kept an eye out for her. He didn’t recognize her right away for she was at the other end of the pier and now wearing a long blue dress over her swimsuit.

 

She was talking to a man who was standing on a motorboat. He was broad-shouldered, holding a can of cider and wearing a shell necklace (probably). They seemed to be arguing. Hardy removed his earbuds and moved closer, still a good 12 feet away.

 

“I don’t want to go, I hate being on the water,” she said.

“Oh, go on, you’re no fun.”

When the man grabbed her arm and tried to pull her up on the boat, Alec had to intervene.

“Oi, what’s going on here?”

Even without his badge or a uniform, he had a natural authority people tended to respond to. The bloke startled and let go of her arm.

“Everything all right, miss?”

She crossed her arms with a scowl.

“It’s nothing.”

“Is it?”

He was distracted by the noise of the motorboat moving away from the dock.

“Ciao, babe. This vacation sucks.”

Her shoulders slumped down, she looked weary, a sharp contrast to earlier on the beach.

“You okay?” Hardy asked with genuine concern.

“Oh, piss off, mate.”

There was no real bite to her words.

Alec hesitated, but a stranger sticking around was clearly the last thing she wanted. He knew the feeling. He left her alone.


	3. The laundromat and the fake-boyfriend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompts for this chapter: ‘I don’t really know you but this creep has been trying to chat you up even though you’ve already turned him down, so I’ll pretend to be your boyfriend until they leave you alone.’ au (suggested by captaingrahamcr ) and “Public laudromat” (suggested by studio-forty-two )

Hannah stood in the hotel lobby with her suitcase, ill-at-ease under the watchful eyes of the concierge.

“He’ll be here in a minute,” she assured him.

 

Finally, her uncle Martin walked through the door. It always struck her how much he looked like her father, down to the bald spot and ruddy complexion.

“Hello, dear. How’s my favourite niece?”

“A little better than yesterday, I suppose.”

He gave her a kiss on the cheek and headed for the reception desk. He paid for her hotel room and they left.

 

As he drove, Hannah rested her forehead against the window.

“Any news from your chap?” Martin asked.

“No, he won't answer his phone,” Hannah said in a sigh.

“Well, you can stay with us for as long you need.”

 

He lived in a nice Edwardian house by the golf course. She hadn’t been there in ages but remembered the lion-shaped door knocker. Martin carried her suitcase inside the house where they were greeted by a delicious smell.

“I made you some _éclaires_ ,” Sid said, walking out of the kitchen.

Her uncle’s husband was a pastry chef. He firmly believed that any problem could be solved with a generous dose of _crème Chantilly._  It might explain Martin’s bulging stomach. Sid, one the other hand, was tall and thin. Although she’d never said so out loud, they reminded her of Bert and Ernie from _Sesame Street_ (they were even both wearing stripes today.)

 

They showed her to the guest bedroom.

“Do you need anything?” Sid asked.

“Well, if I’m stuck in Bournemouth for a couple more days, I’ll need some clean clothes. Could I use your washer?”

“I’m sorry, dear, but we’ve had some plumbing problems in the cellar,” Martin explained. “I know there’s a laundromat near the clinic, when you walk down towards the Travelodge. While you’re at it… you might want to wash a set of sheet.”

Hannah peaked under the linen comforter and found nothing but the bare mattress. Martin looked a bit embarrassed, but she couldn’t complain as he hadn’t expected any guest.

“There’s something else you could do while you’re in town.”

“What’s that?”

“Alec Hardy. Now that your friend’s out of the picture…”

Hannah rolled her eyes. She’d called to ask how Alec’s surgery had gone, and he’d been teasing her about it ever since.

“You think I’m not done with men after what just happened?”

“Of course, of course, this isn’t the right time.” He put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We’ll let you settle in, we’ll be in the garden if you need us.”

 

Hannah looked through her clothes, sorting dry cleaning, hand washing and what could be safely put in an industrial washing machine. As she did this, she thought back on Alec Hardy. Truth be told, even if they’d never talked again, he was still on her mind. The way he’d confessed his fear to her had touched her, and, somehow, she felt like she was part of his life now.

 

Whenever her musings on life and relationships turned philosophical, she thought of that Greek myth she’d once read in school: the three Moirai. Clotho spinning the thread of life, Lachesis measuring the length allotted to each person, and Atropos cutting the thread. Hannah imagined a large web of strands criss-crossing, a web of lives intertwined. Her own thread overlapped Alec Hardy’s. One might argue that it was one in a thousand and therefore meaningless. But his thread was frayed where they met, worn but not cut by Atropos’ shears. And that was something, she reckoned.

 

Had she come to Bournemouth by herself, she might have asked Martin for his number.

 

It seemed that Sunday afternoon was a popular time for laundry. She definitely got stares when she walked into The sudsy launderette. Maybe a black lace Donna Karan dress was a bit much for a laundromat, even if she’d tried to downplay it with a scarf and flats. She paid them no mind and got on with her business.

 

One of the stares lingered however, a man about her age, maybe younger. He wasn’t bad looking per se, but he was wearing a worn out Che Guevara t-shirt and that was all she needed to know about him, unless he was willing to pay. Anyway, she really wasn’t in the mood for a flirt or a client, and that was saying something.  

 

She took all the necessary precautions to ward off any conversation attempts: once her clothes were soaking, she put on earbuds and opened a book. Hopefully, Che-Man wouldn’t dare bother her.

Except he did.

Out of the corner of her eye, she was him walk closer. Then he stood in front of her, but she kept her eyes trained on the page even if she was too annoyed to register any of the words. Surely he would understand now.

Except he didn’t.

He tapped her shoulder. _Christ_. She removed only one earbud and looked up at him with a tight-lipped smile.

 “Yeah?”

“That’s a very good book.”

“I know.”

 

Che-Man sat down next to her and started babbling on about Kurt Vonnegut as if he was a world-renowned scholar on the subject. She wasn’t so much listening, as waiting for him to take a breath so she could tell him to piss off. The man didn’t need air apparently. And he went on to talk about his own revolutionary novel. She just had to cut him then.

 

“I’d really like to read by myself.”

“You know, there’s a nice little café just on the other street, how about we go there for a cuppa?”

“I _really_ just want to read and wait for my clothes.”

“My place’s not too far, I’ve got plenty of books there, and enough weed for a spliff or two.”

“I’m really not interested.”

“Why not?”

 

There was just a little spark of anger at the back of his words to make her very uncomfortable. He was probably the kind of man who thought all women were bitches and didn’t “get” him. If only he bothered to listen to them.

 

She looked around for some sort of ally but everyone seemed absorbed by their tasks or were altogether avoiding looking at them.

 

“Look, I just want to finish my laundry and get back to my boyfriend,” she tried.

“I’m sure I can change your mind.

“Fuck off.”

“Oi, there’s no need to be rude, what the hell’s your problem?”

 

Che-Man stood up, towering over her. She stood up too, not one to be intimated. He moved well into her personal space. She scanned the laundromat again. The bell above the door rang and a man came in. She recognized him as the one who’d tried to help her on the dock. Surely he wouldn’t mind if…

“Sweetie! Hi!”

She waved at the man in a way that could only be described as desperate. He looked behind him, puzzled, certain the greeting was meant for someone else.

 

 She walked up to him and took his arm. There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“I’m so glad you’re here, this bloke won’t leave me alone.” In a whisper, she added: “please just go along with it.”

After an excruciating second, he finally caught on. He sized up Che-man.

“Just leave her alone… and any other woman for that matter.”

His voice was just the right mixture of contempt and lassitude to make Che-Man feel bad, and to make her want to take him everywhere with her.

 

She sat back down on the orange plastic chair. Meanwhile, Fake-boyfriend loaded a machine next to hers with a load of pale shirts and dark trousers.

 

“If he’s your boyfriend, how come you’re doing your laundry separately?” Che-Man asked.

God, he really wasn’t letting this go. And he looked smug about it too. She was stomped by his question but Fake-boyfriend spoke before she had to think of a reply.

“What did I just tell you, eh? Piss off.”

Hannah barely held back a victorious smile. Clearly, they were kindred spirits.

 

Fake-boyfriend looked between her and the free chairs next to her. She patted the one directly on her left.

“How was your day, honey?”

He frowned, something skeptical in his eyes.

“Fine,” he finally replied.

She waited for more. He didn’t say more. She smiled, subtly motioning for him to continue.

“How was yours?” he asked.

“Great, apart from that tosser… I baked a chicken pot pie for dinner.”

“Did you now? I— I love your chicken pot pie.”

“I know it’s your favourite, darling, that’s why I made it.”

She was laying it on thick now. There was only the shadow of a smile on his lips, but she thought he was enjoying this too.

“Remind me to mow the lawn when we get home,” he said.

“Sure, and to take out the trash.”

“ 'Course.”

“By the way, my parents are coming over next Sunday.”

“Good, good, the kids will be glad to see them.”

“The kids? Right. Imogen and Iphigenia,” she replied, biting the inside of her cheek to stop a giggle.

“Yes, Imo— erm, the twins.”

“And I’m pregnant again, a boy this time.”

“Are you?”

She shook her head slightly, indicating she was still playing.

“Oh, okay, well, in that case, I just got a promotion.”

“Congratulations! I know you worked hard for it.”

 

So basically, they had a perfect life that somehow didn’t involve a washing machine at home.

 

He glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he was holding back a joke. She smiled encouragingly.

 

“Just wondering if we might go back to Switzerland during the holidays this year,” he said.

“Well, skiing in the Alps is always nice, innit? But I was thinking somewhere… warmer.”

“Panama?”

“Like on our honeymoon,” she said with an exaggerated dreamy sigh.

 

She rested her head on his shoulder. He stiffened under her, surprised by the physical contact. Che-Man was still eyeing them warily so she didn’t move. Fake-husband noticed and placed his hand on her leg. Just on the knee, a hesitant touch, not even the full weight of it.  No ring, she noticed.

 

She let herself be lulled by the tumbling noises and the fresh smell of detergent. She stared at the water and clothes sloshing about without really seeing it, stuck in that pleasant state of half-consciousness. Even when Che-Man left, she kept her head on the man’s shoulder. Only the buzzer indicating the end of the cycle made her snap out of it. She transferred the clothes and sheets to the dryer.

 

“Thank you for playing along, he was a bit… intense. I’m Hannah, by the way.”

“Alec.”

 

No. It couldn’t be. It’d be too much of a coincidence. Besides, she’d seen him run on the beach, he didn’t look like someone who might need a pacemaker.

 

“Sorry for the other day on the pier, when I told you to piss off. You were just trying to help but I was so…” At a lost for the right word, she just puffed up her cheeks with a sigh and rolled her eyes.

Alec shrugged it off.

“Professional quirk.”

“How d’you mean?”

“I’m a policeman, that’s what I do.”

“Oh and here I thought I was special.”

She fluttered her eyelashes and he bit back a smile.

“You okay now?” he asked.

“Meh. I can usually spot a wanker a mile away, but this one slipped right under the radar. D’you know he stole from me?!”

 

After the incident on the dock, they’d gotten into a big fight and she’d stormed out of the hotel room without her things. By the time she came back, her phone, MacBook, jewelry and wallet were gone, and so was her boyfriend.

 

Even if she’d known early on that the relationship wouldn’t work, the betrayal still hurt more than the theft. What had she done to deserve this? How much of her money had he already spent?

 

The police had asked her to stay in town a little longer while they investigated. She wasn’t holding her breath for that. At least, here, she could have a glass of wine with Sid and Martin after a long day of sorting out this mess. Just the thought of calling her insurance company and getting new ID cards was wearing her down.

 

“You don’t have much luck with men,” Alec commented.

She snorted. He didn’t know the half of it.

“Statistically, I’m probably not worse off than the next girl, you know, but the numbers are skewed because I meet a lot of men… Although, I seem to have a bit of luck today.”

She bumped his shoulder with hers.

 

It’s the freckles that did it for her. Alec wasn’t much to look at: brown eyes, brown hair, average built. Most people wouldn’t spare him a second look. But there was a light dust of freckles on his cheeks, just enough so that no matter the unkempt beard and tight-lipped mouth, it was utterly charming. And when he smiled shyly, and closed his eyes, she noticed his eyelashes, not unusually long but nice somehow against the apple of his cheeks. It all made her heart swell.

 

Another buzzer indicated the sheets were dry, and she enlisted Alec’s help for the folding. They stood, each holding their end, first folding it lengthwise. Then they had to walk towards each other to fold it in two. It reminded her of that spaghetti scene in _The Lady and the Tramp_. That made her giggle and blush as she took the sheet from his fingers.

They folded the fitted sheet too, which was a bit tricky. This time, when they met, she didn’t take the sheet from him. Instead, without thinking, she put her hands over his. A laundromat was probably the least romantic place to have a _moment_ with a kind stranger, but it was happening nonetheless. She looked into his eyes and let an effervescent feeling wash over her.

“That your mobile?”

“What?”

Oh, there was a song coming from her dress pocket. It was Martin’s phone so she was unfamiliar with the ringtone. The call was from Constable Collins to tell her there had been some development in her case.

“If you could come down to the station as soon as possible, miss, we’ve arrested someone.”

“Really! I’ll be right there.”

She shoved the bed sheets and still damp clothes in her suitcase while explaining the situation to a confused Alec. She walked briskly towards the exit, but paused before pushing the door. She retraced her steps.

“I wouldn’t really call my kids Imogen and Iphigenia.”

Why she felt the need to clarify that, she had yet to figure out.

“Right.”

“Anyway, I’ll see you around, yeah?”

She kissed his cheek and left.


	4. The bookstore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: “library or book store setting” suggested by fadewithfury

The day after the events at the laundromat, Hardy arrived early at the police station. Instead of going straight to his desk, he walked up to Constable Collins and asked after Hannah’s theft case. Hardy had no intention of waiting for another chance meeting.

 

Hannah was beautiful and funny, and she’d kissed his cheek. Granted, he’d read the signs wrong before (Becca came painfully to mind), but maybe it was worth the risk. Because yesterday, for the first time in ages, he’d caught himself daydreaming about a woman. A daydream that came with a sense of purpose and hope. Maybe his time in Bournemouth wouldn't go to waste, maybe it would bring him closer to the life he wanted to rebuild.

 

“Yeah, I know the one,” Collins said, “it was Sharky again.”

“Sharky?”

“Yeah, you don’t know him cos you just got here, but he’s a regular guest at the station: graffiti, possession, assault… We found her things at the pawn shop on Durrant.”

 

Hardy frowned, she didn’t seem like the type to date a criminal. He took the file from Collins' hands and flipped through it. Sharky’s picture looked nothing like the man he’d seen Hannah with on the pier.

 

“She said her boyfriend was the thief.”

“Yeah, well, she was wrong. Sharky says they’d left the hotel room door opened, reckons they were asking for it, he was teaching them a lesson.” Collins snorted. “You know her?”

 

Hardy didn’t answer and read the file. If her boyfriend wasn’t the thief, chances were that she would get back with him. That thought put a damper on his good mood. What was he thinking anyway? They’d met twice by accident, so what?

_We’re not bloody star-crossed lovers._

That’s when he noticed her surname: Baxter. He could hardly believe it. He rubbed his eyes and looked again.

 

Hannah Baxter.

 

Whenever his room was too silent or he saw something funny on the street, he wished he had someone to call and talk to. Nothing serious, just someone. In those moments, his thoughts inevitably turned to her. A woman he only knew by voice up until now.

 

As he couldn’t decide whether to ring her or not, he resolved to wait until the end of his shift. He managed to focus solely on work for most of the day, dedicated as he was. But as five o’clock neared, something that felt strangely like butterflies started happening in his stomach. At 4:58, he was dialing the number in her case file.

 

It was Dr. Baxter’s number, as it turned out.

 

“I told you not to call me at home again, Alec.”

“I’m looking for Hannah, your niece.”

Dr. Baxter’s tone changed from angry to honeyed.

“Well, in that case… she’s just left, went to the bookstore, the Waterstones on High street, needed something to read on the train.”

“The train?”

“Yeah, she’s going back to London tonight. If you leave now, you might be able to catch her.”

“I don’t—“

“Go! Go!”

 

In the bat of an eye, he’d made a decision and he was out the door.

 

All the running was finally paying off, Hardy arrived at the bookstore out of breath but in a short time. He walked briskly through the rows of books, rising on his tip toes to peek above the displays. He spotted the stairs to the second floor and climbed two steps at a time. From up there, he had a better view of the shop. He scanned the customers. He finally caught a flash of blond hair and a bright pink t-shirt just by the exit. She was leaving, shopping bag in hand.

 

Hardy ran back to the first floor, almost knocking down an old lady in his haste. By the time he made it outside, she was already in a taxi, driving away. He cursed under his breath. Raindrops fell on his head, and he returned inside the bookstore, feeling like a fool.

 

He scrolled through the recent numbers on his mobile, looking for Dr. Baxter only to remember he’d called from a landline at work. Hands on hips, he looked around for some sort of epiphany. The cashier!

 

“There was a woman in here, blond hair, this high, about 30, pink t-shirt. What book did she buy?”

 

He flashed his badge for good measure. Hopefully, it would make the kid nervous and he wouldn’t question what kind of police investigation could possibly require such information. After a quick look in the computer, the cashier guided Hardy to the self-help section. He handed him a paperback.

 

_The independent heart: be happy on your own._

_Urgh_.

 

He bought it.

 

Since it was nearly dinner time, he decided to eat at the bookstore café. There was no point in running after Hannah, she lived in another city and, if the book was anything to go by, she wouldn’t be interested in dating.

 

The café was on the second floor. There were floor to ceiling windows overlooking a park. Hardy bought a quiche and a green tea, then settled in one of those armchairs that always look more comfortable than they actually are.

 

He put on his glasses and started reading while eating. He fought liking the book for the first twenty pages. (Tess would have a fit if she knew he was reading a self-help book and that thought alone kept him going.) It wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. The author made a valid point about true solitude rather than loneliness populated by ghosts of the past. “Have you really embraced this opportunity to learn something about yourself?” it asked.

 

It’s the jingle of ice cubes in a plastic cup that pulled him out of his reading. He looked up to find Hannah standing next to his table. She grinned, sipped noisily through a straw and grinned some more.

 

“You were looking for me, Alec Hardy.”

“And here you are.”

 

He stood up to greet her only to realize he didn’t know what to do once on his feet. That bloody grin on her face was still in full force.

 

“You gonna stand there all night?” he said. ( _That’s right, Hardy, be rude to her, that’ll charm her.)_

 

He leaned awkwardly over the table to pull out the other chair. She watched him struggle for a moment before taking over and sitting down.

 

“I have the same,” she said, pointing at his book with her chin.

“I know.”

This time, she seemed flattered rather than amused, and he relaxed a little.

 

“Your boyfriend wasn’t the thief after all. You must be pleased.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So, you and him…”

“Nah. I truly believed he’d stolen from me. What does that say about our relationship, you know?”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“I meant…” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to come up with an explanation that wouldn’t make him look like a self-centered prick.

She waved off his concern.

“It wasn’t serious, he was just filling a space at my side.”

She looked down at her hands, picking off her nail polish.

 

She’d changed clothes, he noticed, traded her jeans and t-shirt for a violet dress. Her right sleeve kept sliding off her shoulder, and she kept tugging it back up. The fourth time, she gave up. He could see her bra strap: black lace with a little bow. He hadn’t been aroused by a bra strap since Amelia Haigs in year nine geography. To be fair, it wasn’t just the bra strap (and the hint of cleavage) it was the whole person, inside and out. If he’d known he could attract women like her, he’d have gotten divorced years ago— no, not really. Still…

 

There was nothing but ice left in her cup but she took a sip anyway and chewed on the straw. He traced the rim of his mug with a finger.

 

“Your uncle said you were leaving for London tonight.”

“Did he?” She laughed. “I told him _maybe_ tomorrow. Don’t believe everything he says…  Except his medical opinion, I didn’t mean to imply, you know...”

“It’s all right. You live in London, then?”

“Yeah, born and bred. Where are you from?”

 

They didn’t have an extraordinary conversation. It was very banal in fact: Glasgow, 43, divorcé, one daughter. Thirty-three, no kids but one nephew, writer… people have this kind of conversation all the time. But to Hardy, it felt like a new beginning more than anything else in the last two years.

 

In Broadchurch and Bournemouth alike, the Sandbrook case had preceded him, now with the added bonus of Joe Miller’s trial. Hannah didn’t know anything about him and that was a relief. He didn’t talk about dead children or impressionable juries or unfaithful wives. He talked about things he liked: rediscovering the music of his youth and planning a trip to Edinburgh with Daisy. And Hannah told him about taking driving lessons and a comedy show she’d been to last week.

 

It was nice. It was easy.

 

He couldn’t remember either of them suggesting to leave the café, but they both stood up and started wandering through the shelves. It was quiet on this Tuesday night, and they spoke in hushed voices as if they were in a library rather than a shop.

 

Every section brought on a new conversation topic: travels, cooking, politics, children, and crimes. She had a flirty quip for everything. It made him blush and lose his wits. But then she’d ask a good question, she’d learn something from him and smile. She made him interesting when she could have easily reduced him to a blundering fool.

 

Her fingers caressed the spine of books as they walked aimlessly. The characteristic smell of paper and ink blended with the hint of orange blossom on her skin, and he found himself walking closer to her until the back of his hand brushed against hers. They’d reached the farthest corner of the store, a dimly lit spot between Beaudelaire and Byron. He wasn’t sure which one of them was responsible for that.

 

She bit her lip and looked at him sideways.

“Isn’t it incredible, that you called me by accident and then we met again here?”

He was very aware of their proximity and therefore willing to go along with whatever fairy tale scenario she wanted.

“Incredible, yeah.”

 

She turned to face him completely, leaning against the wall, hands behind her back. She gave him a look that could be solely responsible for global warming. Hardy swallowed thickly and raised his hand to her face, only grazing his fingertips along her jaw.

“Hannah, I—" He took a deep breath, and she tilted her head with a gentle smile. “Can I kiss you?”

“I’d like that.”

 

He couldn’t help a giddy chuckle, freed from the depth of his heart. He licked his lips and leaned in. She met him halfway, impatient, eager. Delightful. The way she fisted his shirt made him bold.  His hands found her waist as he angled his head to deepen the kiss.

 

Nearby voices made them jump apart. Hannah giggled, hiding her face against his shoulder. He kissed the top of her hair, laughing just as much. He put a hand to his chest as if to stop his heart from floating away.

 

“Maybe they have your books here. Let’s see them.”

Hannah’s laughter faltered.

“… All right.”

 

She took his hand or he took hers, and they walked to another part of the store.

 

“I never could figure out how you ended up calling me instead of my uncle,” she said.

“Police records. Your name was right before his in the search results, I wrote down the wrong number.”

 

Had he been more clear-minded at that moment, he might have wondered why she had a police record.

 

“Here we are, my books.” There was a tremolo to her voice he didn’t quite understand.

 

He picked one copy off the shelf and recognized the suggestive cover.

“My ex-wife had it.”

“Told you they were best-sellers.”

“Belle de Jour?”

 

She shrugged a shoulder and bit her thumb nail. He turned the book to read the blurb on the back.

“Belle de Jour is the nom de plume of a high-class call girl working in London. This is her story. She reveals (among other things) how she became a working girl, what it feels like to do it for money, and where to buy the best knickers for the job.”

Hardy laughed but it wasn’t as merry as he’d hoped. He looked over at Hannah for reassurance. She averted her eyes. That’s when he noticed they were not in the “fiction” department but in “biographies and true stories”.

 

“You’re a— a sex worker?”

“I thought you’d seen my criminal record.”

“No, no, I haven’t.”

 

Hannah laughed nervously, wringing her hands.

 

“Sorry, we’re closing,” an employee said just as the lights started turning off one by one.

Hardy looked at his watch, surprised that it was already nine o’clock.

“Do you want to leave?” Hannah asked.

She didn’t mean the store. She was offering him an out.

 

He was unsettled by what he’d just learned, and a few years ago he might have taken to his heels. But if he’d found out that some people can do awful things, worse than you’d ever imagined they could, he had to believe that some were also capable of more good than he’d ever thought. It had to work both ways. He had to give her a chance.

 

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he said, placing an arm around her.  He felt the tension leave her shoulders.

 

Outside, a bit of light lingered in the summer sky, calling people out of their homes. The street was busy with families and noisy with chatter. Hannah pulled a pashmina from her purse and draped it over her arms. Instinctively, they walked towards the beach.

 

Hardy waited until they’d walked past the crowd to ask how she’d ended up with a criminal record. Prostitution in itself wasn’t illegal in the UK but many related activities were. She explained that she had a brief affair with a tamed copper who didn’t take kindly to being rejected. He had her arrested for a brief stint as a madam— a procurer in legal terms. No prison for her, luckily, but a hefty fine and sixty hours of community service at a women’s shelter (“an eye-opening experience”).

 

He had to admit he was relieved to learn that, professionally, she was in transition at the moment.

 

“Becoming an old whore is just too depressing. I’m trying different things. I tried uni, in psychology— I lasted two weeks. Now I’m trying to write a fiction novel, but it’s not as fun. I need to meet people… should I keep on babbling or are you going to say something?”

“Dunno.” He ran a hand though his hair. “Look, right now it doesn’t bother me.”

“For now.”

“For now.”

“…Okay. Fair enough.” She looped her arm through his. “So, favourite ice cream flavour?”

 

Hardy recovered his smile. They walked along the boardwalk, illuminated by strings of colourful lights. The salty wind ruffled their hair and carried their laughter. The conversation was light-hearted again, but more personal. She answered his questions about her job with poise. In return, he was honest about his heart troubles, both biological and emotional.

 

They grew quiet just as the streets had at this hour. They walked arm in arm until he realized they were near his hotel. Hope and apprehension churned in his stomach. This was it, the end of the date, full of awkwardness and possibilities.

 

“Have you changed your mind about going back to London tomorrow?”

He sought her gaze but she wouldn’t look at him. She fiddled with tassels of her pashmina.

“It’s complicated.”

  _Fuck_.

Apprehension won over hope. The doubts he’d had earlier returned.

 

“Why did you buy that book about being on your own?” He pointed at his own copy in his jacket pocket.

“I’m looking for answers, or solutions, actually. I think… I can’t stand being with myself, you know, but I need to figure out some things. I had this friend, he used to be there for me all the time… but he’s gone and I jumped right into another relationship…” She shook her head. “I really like you, Alec.”

“But?”

“I’m sorry, I need to do this.”

 

She rested her forehead against his shoulder. He closed his arms around her. He couldn’t help but feel like there was more to it, but he didn’t insist. He caressed her hair for a moment, neither of them wanted to let go. It just felt so good to hold someone. To hold Hannah.

 

He remembered something about the book.

“Look, the author, he suggests being on your own for three months. I’ll give you my number, and in three months, you call me, okay? And we’ll see where we are.”

 

He stepped back to look into her eyes, to convey his sincerity. He was in transition too, he could understand her need. He couldn't promise anything, but neither could he let her go.

 

“Three months,” she agreed.


	5. Travel office

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: “They meet at the travel office” suggested by itsonlythesoaps (the travel office became the tourist information center, close enough)  
> I tried to keep it light and fluffy but a little angst slipped in, you know how I am :P  
> I’m sorry the last chapter took so long :S

“Being on my own is rubbish,” Hannah declared right away.

Alec chuckled, it had barely been two months since they’d parted. He tucked his mobile between cheek and shoulder, and reclined against the headboard.

“Not working for you, is it?”

“Not at all… Well, maybe a little. I guess I won’t really be able to tell before the three months are over. You?”

He shrugged even if she couldn’t see it. Truth be told, he was counting the days until he could see her again.

“D’you think it’s cheating if we have a bit of a chat?” she asked.

From the way she said it, he could picture her tilted head and playful smile. Even on the phone, he couldn’t resist it. And so they talked for a bit, or flirted, more like.

 

When he hung up, his face hurt from smiling (granted, he rarely used those muscles nowadays). For the rest of the night, and for a few nights after that, there was an odd feeling in his chest, like something should be there but wasn’t, almost like he was missing her.

He had to face the truth: he had a crush. A good old crush, that gave him butterflies and made him buy new clothes.

 

He didn’t hear from her again for a week.

 

When his mobile rang, he had a shopping basket hanging off the crook of his arm and a cereal box in each hand to compare the nutritional values. He cursed under his breath whoever was bothering him. As a police officer, however, he didn’t have the luxury of ignoring phone calls. He dumped it all on the floor.

“What?”

“Where are you?” Hannah asked.

“Bournemouth.”

“Yeah, but where in Bournemouth?”

“Tesco.”

“Ok, hold on.”

 He heard Hannah talking to someone else, asking for directions. Hardy’s heart skipped a beat when he realized she was in town.

 “Where are _you_?”

“At the tourist information center. You weren’t at the police station and I couldn’t remember the name of your hotel.”

“Just wait for me there.”

 

He headed for the cash registers, then backtracked and picked up a box of condoms.

He used a self-checkout machine.

 

As he drove to the center, he kept having to wipe his clammy hands on his trousers to get a better grip on the steering wheel. Why did she have to come over unannounced and make him feel so… panicked? He wasn’t even wearing the new clothes he’d bought.

 Not that he was unhappy to see her, on the contrary, he was too happy, that was the problem.

 

He decided to abuse his position and parked in an unauthorized spot. He ripped open a pack of gum to freshen his breath and looked at his reflection in the rear-view mirror— best not look too much.

 

She beamed when he walked in, all perfect teeth and ripe lips, twisting the hem of her shirt above her hip.

 

“Hey you.”

“Hey! How are you?” he asked.

“Good. You?”

“Fine... You?”

 She giggled, and he stared like a nutcase. She was just as beautiful as he remembered. He couldn’t think of anything to say nor could he look away from her.

 Granted, she was in much the same state, but it looked a hundred times better on her.

 

“Sorry, for showing up like this,” she said.

“You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. S’just… I got so bored and, like, restless too, you know? I couldn’t stand it… I couldn’t wait to see you again. I kept thinking what if he meets someone else and I just let this great guy slip away for some soul-searching tosh, right?”

“Seriously?”

“Did you? Meet someone else.”

He snorted, then realized she was serious and shook his head.

 

She’d said she couldn’t wait to see him. _She_ couldn’t wait to see _him_. He had to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop smiling.

 

His fingers itched to touch her, and he took a tentative step in her direction. She closed the gap between them, rising on her tip toes. They bumped noses and giggled against each other’s lips, tilting their heads at a better angle. He found her hips, tugged her closer and deepened the kiss in a way that made her breath hitch and her fingers curl in his hair.

 

“Eeewww.” There was a little girl staring at them, nose wrinkled in disgust.

Hannah couldn’t stop laughing and hid her face in the crook of his neck.

“Would you mind, we’re in public,” said her mother, grabbing the girl’s hand.

“Get a room,” added the father.

“I have a room,” Hardy whispered, closing his arms around Hannah's waist.

She trailed her nose along the angle of his jaw and dropped a light kiss on his pulse point.

“I wanna keep snogging you just to defy them,” she said.

And he loved he defiant spirit, but he was still a police officer in this town.

“Oh, all work and no play…”

“I’ll show you no work and all play.”

 She giggled and took his hand to guide him out of the building.

 

Of course, she noticed the “no parking” sign by his car.

“Aaaww, you broke the law for me.”

He knew she was joking, but it made him feel oddly proud anyway.

 

It took three attempts, before he managed to get the hotel door unlocked. They walked into what could possibly be the blandest room in the UK. Hannah took in the smell of cleaning products, the faded artwork above the bed and all the beige.

 

“Well, this is depressing,” she commented.

“Aye.” He chucked his shopping bag on the bed.

“Let’s see that mini-bar.”

“Help yourself. I’ll just pop to the loo.”

 

When he came back to the room, Hannah looked way too excited: she’d found the condoms.

 “I’m curious, did you buy these before or after my call?”

“Erm, well—”

“Bit presumptuous. Is it because I’m a prostitute?”

He tugged on his collar, feeling hotter by the minute.

“I’m just taking the piss, relax.”

“For god’s sake.”

 She patted his arm and ditched the box.

 

“Cider good for you?” He took the bottle she was offering. “Didn’t mean to go through your stuff but I’m peckish, mind if I eat some of your almonds?”

The bag was already opened.

He felt out of his depth with her in the room. She seemed so much more at ease than him, like it was her room rather than his own. Yet he was thankful for it, otherwise they’d just be two idiots glued on their spot. He suggested ordering some food as he was hungry too. Looking through the take-out flyers would give him something to do. They agreed on vegetarian pizza.

 “Don’t tell your uncle I’m eating fast food.”

“It’ll be our secret.”

 

She sat on the bed, and he chose the armchair. Waiting for the food to arrive, she flicked through channels, drinking her cider much faster than him— maybe she was nervous too.

 

She found one of those medical shows they’d talked about on their first phone call. They watched in morbid fascination as fat was pumped out of obese conjoined twins. He ended up telling her about one of the grossest corpse he’d ever seen.

_Smooth. Real smooth, Hardy._

Thankfully, the pizza arrived to shut him up. While he was paying the delivery guy, Hannah sneakily turned down the bedside lights a notch to enhance the mood.

 

They sat at the tiny table by the window and ate straight out of the box, catching up on the last two months. With something to occupy his hands and the cider reaching his blood, he eased out of his initial awkwardness.

 

She’d come to the conclusion that she enjoyed being on her own, she was a solitary person in a way, but only as long as she could meet people at work. That’s why just writing wasn’t working for her. She spoke, somewhat wistfully, about prostitution.

“No annoying coworkers, just a few clients, one-on-one, and if I don’t want to see them again, I don’t have to.”

“But you’re still trying to quit.”

“Don’t talk about it like it’s an addiction. It’s not smoking.”

“No, sorry.”

“And yeah, I am, but I’m not doing it for you. I don’t want you holding this over my head.”

 Alec nodded. She was very touchy about this, and he could only imagine the kind of shit she’d had to deal with from former boyfriends.

 

“I’ll be worried, though,” he said nonchalantly before sucking tomato sauce off his thumb.

“Worried?”

“You know the stat: 1 in 2… No? One in two prostitute is the victim of a crime— and that’s just those reported.”

“And what’s the stat for coppers?” she replied without missing a beat.

“It’s not the same.”

“The fear’s the same. I’ll be worried about you too, however honourable your death might be. That’s not really the point, is it?”

 He shrugged without much conviction and stuffed a big piece of crust in his mouth. She was right.

 

After a moment, the defensive tightness in her shoulders phased out.

“I have to get out now, before I become a statistic.”

 

She smiled but there was something defeated to the line of her lips. He took her hand, rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. He may never be able to understand why she enjoyed prostitution, but he could understand the sorrow of leaving a beloved career. For months, last year, he’d really thought he’d never be a detective again.

 

“Any other job you wanna do?”

“Well, there’s this project, it’s still in the early stages, but I’m really excited about it.” She dropped her slice and leaned forward. “I have a friend, she’s a journalist, we met when my first book came out and we really hit it off, she’s great. Anyway, we want to work together on a documentary about sex or maybe a web series, we’re not sure yet."

"Sounds great."

"But, what about you? Figured out anything?”

“Dunno. It’s like in an investigation, sometimes you have to rule out suspects, and you think you’re one step back but you’re actually one step closer, just doesn’t feel like it.”

“Right… Meaning you’ve ruled out some possibilities?”

 

Ruled out some, discovered more, he had no idea where to go next.

It was Hannah’s turn to take his hand.

 

“I went to Edinburgh with Daisy.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember you telling me you were planning a trip. How did it go?”

“Brilliant. We visited the university there. And I realized I’m trying to find work in Sandbrook to get closer to her, but she’s off to uni in a year or two. There’s nothing for me in Sandbrook. Only moved there cos Tess wanted to be closer to her family, I’d have stayed in Glasgow.”

“And your daughter wants to go to Edinburgh?”

“She’s thinking about it. My sister’s kid will go there and they’re quite close, so. I could move there.”

 

Of course, it wasn’t as easy as packing his stuff, he’d have to find work and a place to live. The cost of life was higher and there would probably be a fight with Tess. Plus, Daisy might not be accepted right away as she’d been having problems in school since the divorce. But he was considering that option seriously.

 

“It’s a nice city. I go to the festival every year,” Hannah said.

 She picked another slice of pizza and fiddled absentmindedly with a string of cheese. He waited for her to say whatever was on her mind.

 “My friend, the journalist, she lives there. Her production company’s there too.” She waited for a reaction that didn’t come. “Never mind.”

“Okay… oh.”

“There it is. Sorry, I’m not planning our future or anything, just sayin’, hypothetically, I could, sort of, well, relocate.” She laughed nervously. "Forget it.”

“No, no, that’s— that’s good to know.”

“Yeah?”

He gave her knee a little squeeze under the table, and she smiled coyly.

 

He got carried away with thoughts of a cozy bungalow, maybe in Leith, near the sea, walks in Holyrood park with Hannah, Sunday lunch with his sister and the kids. Normal things he hadn’t cherished before losing them.

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Hannah said, gesturing in front of his face, “all lovey-dovey.”

“This better?”

He crossed his eyes and Hannah burst out laughing. Her laughter faded but a smile lingered on her lips and brightened her eyes.

“Now who’s looking all lovey-dovey?”

“Shut up.”

“I like you.”

“Shut up,” she repeated, but he could tell from her rosy cheeks that she was pleased.

 

When she stood up to refill her glass, he caught her waist, and pulled her on his lap to kiss her. After the first “oomph” of surprise, she reciprocated in kind. Yet, when they parted, she wouldn’t look at him and fiddled with the buttons of his shirt instead. His heart sank.

 

She took a deep breath, as if to steel herself and at long last, she said: “It scares me…”

“That I like you?”

She nodded.

It scared him too. It was a good kind of fear, it made him feel dizzy, emboldened. But he’d fucked it up before, and he could fuck it up again.

 

Worrying her bottom lip, she finally looked up at him. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering on her neck. She initiated the kiss this time. The way she clutched his shirt tugged at his heart strings, and he swore he’d never let her go.

 

She rested her forehead against his, and he rubbed her back.

“All right?” he asked.

“Yeah, but I think we need to brush our teeth.”       

 

In a snap, she was her confident self again. But now he could see the cracks in her armour, or rather, she’d let him see them.

 

They stood side by side in the tiny bathroom, trying not to drool frothy toothpaste all over the place. They failed miserably as Hannah had decided to do everything in her power to make him laugh. When she squeezed his bum, he spat all over the mirror. In retaliation, he peppered minty, foamy kisses over her face. She was laughing too hard to escape him.

 

“That was cheating,” he said, “now I need to change my shirt.”

“All’s fair in love and war.”

 

They took turns in the shower. She came out of the bathroom wearing pyjama shorts with little ice cream cones on it and no make-up. It appeared she would be spending the night here. Rather than the nervousness he’d expected, he found he really enjoyed the ordinariness of it all.

 

They settled on the bed, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her, and she picked a movie. He’d already seen it, but he didn’t say, knowing he would be distracted anyway.

 And distracted he was, by everything from the smell of soap on her skin to the softness of her hair between his fingers. Every time she moved and brushed against him, every time she laughed or simply sighed, his mind zeroed in on her.

 Slowly, leisurely, a pressure built up, low in his stomach. A lazy sort of arousal strolled through his veins. However, the cider and fat food combined with the warmth of the room made him drowsy. So, he was content to remain there, with Hannah in his arms, basking in unhurried lust.

 

He missed cuddling. During the last years of his marriage, he’d waited until Tess was asleep to get into bed. He’d avoided arguments. He’d missed out on affection.

He held Hannah closer, and she tilted her head to kiss his cheek. Yes, he was content now.

 

As the movie progressed, they slid down the headboard, inch by inch, laying more and more horizontally. She had an arm wrapped around his waist now, and she hitched a leg over his, her knee dangerously close to where his sweatpants were beginning to rise. Then again, she probably didn’t need to see it, to know it was happening.

 

His hand drifted from her arm to her waist, before long, it slipped under the hem of her top. Her skin goose pimpled under the featherlight caress of his fingers.

Something intangible shifted in the atmosphere.

He became acutely aware of his respiration. Of hers too. Of the way every intake of breath made her chest expand and pushed her breasts against his side. Biting the inside of his cheeks, he tried to reign in his body’s reaction but to no avail. As a last resort, he turned on his side and bent his knees.

 

Hannah chuckled— of course, she knew. Turning on her side as well, she nudged a leg between his.

 “You know I don’t care about the end of that movie,” she said, dragging her fingers in swirls over his chest.

“I’ve already seen it.”

“Good.”

 She continued the maddening pattern, fingers swirling increasingly lower on his torso. He gulped when she reached the waistband of his pants. He stopped her hand. She looked up at him askance.

 “I thought…”

 He looked at her, he really did, the way he’d avoid doing since getting into bed. Her brow furrowed under his appraising gaze.

 

Some other men might be able to say something nice and romantic, but he couldn’t. His throat was tight, his brain hazy.

 

He trailed his fingers along her jaw, and her mouth parted as he grazed his thumb across the bottom lip.

 “You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered.

“But I want to, I just— M’not very good at this.”

“Sex?”

“Relationships.”

 Hannah dipped her head to kiss his palm.

 “One thing at a time, yeah?” she said. “And we can begin by making each other happy tonight.”

 She scooted closer and nudged his nose with hers.

 

Suddenly, his arousal wasn’t so lazy anymore. The hand under her top, moved up until he felt the underside of her breast on his fingertips. She squeezed her thighs together around his leg, and he didn’t need more incentive. He marveled at the warm flesh filling his palm, at her nipple puckering under his thumb. He broke the kiss to venture lower, dragging his lips down her throat, across her collarbone, and catching a peak through cotton.

 

Much like she’d made him interesting when they were talking in the bookstore, she made him a good lover. She guided his hand and mouth where she needed them, and moaned encouragements in his ear. Clothes were thrown out of the bed and blankets kicked aside.

 

She rolled them over and took her pleasure from him. She was magnificent, and he came too fast. But it didn’t matter as this was not the end. Her eyes and lips demanded more. They began anew, damp skin had dried and heart rates had decreased. But they kept going, flesh to flesh, infinity in an embrace. She licked the salt off his skin, gorged on his admiration, and her words turned to gasps with his mouth between her legs. He made it up to her, unrelenting through hair pulling and quivering thighs until her pleasure coated his tongue. And when he was hard again, she cradled his hips and let him take control. He laced their fingers, held her hands above her head, and watched her unravel.

 

The satisfied look on her face would fuel his ego for weeks.

 

Hannah rested her head on his chest, traced the scar above his heart. He resisted the urge to put his clothes right back on.

 “The way I’ve come to see it,” she whispered, “is that we get a second chance.

 

* * *

 

 

The alarm clock was jarring, to say the least. Hannah groaned and put a pillow over her head. He shut it with a fist and put his arms back around her, fitting his body to her back.

 “I need to go to work,” he said, lips to her shoulder.

“No.” She held his arm tighter around her midriff. “Can’t you call in sick?”

“Not that easy. There’s this operation today…”

 She turned in his arms and gave him a sad puppy look. He kissed her pouting lip. As he let her tongue past his lips, his hand found her breast. He was crazy to resist this.

 

This time it was the rattling of his phone vibrating on the table that disturbed them. He knew who it was without looking: his boss.

 “Han…”

“Oh, all right.” She tried to push him off the bed playfully. “Go, go.”

He caught her hands and held them on his chest.

“I’ll try to get out early, I mean…” He hesitated.He sniffed and cleared his throat, affecting a casual air despite the nervous, erratic pumping in his chest. “Will you still be here when I get back?”

“Of course. Why wouldn't I be?”

"Dunno. Might change your mind."

"You might change yours," she replied.

"Don't think so."

"Then I'll still be here." She cupped his cheek and kissed him softly. "I might even still be naked."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who sent prompts and left comments this was fun!


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